Labyrinth King
by NiennatheWise
Summary: Part one of four of "Born of Magic". Wherein we read of the Labyrinth King, his history, his sorrows and his labyrinth. Wherein he meets Sarah and is defeated. Wherein he curses her to wander the Labyrinth forever. Rated M for dark content and themes. JS.
1. Chapter 1

I am not a man.

No woman conceived me; no man begat me. I have never known the comfort of the enclosing womb nor suckled tenderly at a woman's breast. My eyes have not seen the soft, fuzzy form of human face in the dim light of an infants first hours in the world. My ears have not heard the pleasured cries as enraptured arms enfolded me in a warm embrace. I was not born; I simply am.

I have never known a home nor pined for the lack of it. Neither mother nor father raised me, yet I am not an orphan, for I have no parentage to lack. I have never craved a mother's bosom to weep in on a dark, moonless night; nor have I cried out in terror when the rolling thunder ripped the sky above my room. No father taught me to be a man with gruff voice and fearsome mien. No heavy hand chastened me in my youth when stubborn rebellion crept upon me, ousting my superiors and challenging their authority; I have never known submission.

Neither have I known the intimacy and aggression of a sibling's presence. My identity has never been threatened by rival kinship. I am alone. Myself. Self-sufficient and independent.

I am not a god.

Though ageless, I was born of time and consequence. Though powerful, omnipotence escapes my grasp. With tireless skill and effortless dominion I rule my microcosm with dispassionate equanimity. I had a beginning and if I have an end, it is beyond my ken. I think, perhaps, I shall exist until time itself tires and, decrepit, fades from all mortal memory. Birth does not obliterate the possibility of immortality.

In truth, I am neither man nor god.

Though some have called me Fae—and I have, in truth, taken on their appearance to suit my need—I am not a faerie child, for even they are born of the passionate embrace between man and woman. Such was not my birth. I am the child neither of lust nor of procreational necessity. No sweet seduction was my forebear: the sheen of sweat coalescing on a bronzed forehead, dripping from the heated flesh onto a delicate satin couch. Bodies writhing in passion to the rhythm of their aching need—the threshold of their desire just beyond reach until the final thrust brings them both to consummation, and to parenthood. My origin is of old and beyond carnal urges.

I am born of magic.

I am a child of energy and power: no more, no less. Child is generous, for in my infancy (if indeed you may call it that), I was no less powerful than now, only more ignorant. There was never a time when I could not speak and act to influence my environment—a mewling, helpless babe such as I have often stolen from the mists to bring to my domain. I needed no one to help me understand my cosmos. My first act as a created being was an act of power, of might, and of lasting significance. Never did I loll about in human fashion, needing a mother's nursing or a father's strong presence in the fearful hour. I neither eat nor sleep, for such are the requirements of frail creatures; magic knows neither hunger nor thirst nor tiredness. My only sustenance is my existence.

I am born of need.

I was born neither of human will nor of a man's lust nor of the selfish desire to replicate oneself to stay the fear of death and insignificance. My mother is magic and my father, the mists of time. Though not the effect of genetic duplication, protection and self-preservation were the circumstances of my birth. Even magic can be penurious.

In the hour of her need, magic created me as guardian and preserver of her sanctity. I have neither kin nor family, for there are none like me in the history of time. I am the one and only king and lord of magic: magic's incarnation. Magic brought me into existence to protect and preserve, and in the face of the receeding of the faerie mists, my power grows and my once vast dominion has become a stronghold against the encroaching human world. With magic on the defensive, I protect its existence. Magic gave me birth and now I give it life.

I have no equal.

Humans fear me and to them I am as a god. I stole their children to populate my kingdom. They sent me their unwanted ones, their ugly and outcast and unwittingly increased my power a hundredfold. I was awful in their eyes, one to be feared, dreaded, whispered about behind closed doors but never called upon directly. None has dared challenge me, though of late, they have begun to forget me.

The goblins worship me. I am their King and they are my minions and the denizens of my kingdom—the kingdom that is also my progenitor. Once the unwanted castoffs of the human race, now distorted, gleeful imps whose only joy is mischief and wild abandon. I transformed their shame into power, their self-loathing into pride. Those who once rejected them now shrink away from their devilish pranks. For good or ill, I am their Lord and Master. They call me king and I protect the mists from their disorder. One might even call me their creator, for though they existed before me, I have overseen the rise in their population, daily adding to their number from among the rank and file of humanity.

I am a master of magic and ruler of the Underground kingdom. The goblins revere me and the faeries respect me. I am their equal in power, if not in reputation. None have entered my kingdom and returned to tell the tale. I am a master of trickery; deceit and mischief bedeck my halls like so many glittering garlands. Power is my crown and my signet, impassivity.

I am the winged darkness, the stormless thunderbolt and the sultry lilt of music in the night.

I am Jareth, Labyrinth King.


	2. Chapter 2

**I've finished a second chapter and put it up for review. This story may take a while longer than the others, but bear with me. I have the plot all sorted out, I just need to get it written down and out of my head. However, I'm starting grad school in a week and a half, so I'll be pretty busy. I hope to have part one finished in a month or two, but who knows. It might be sooner (crosses fingers). Part one is all going to be told from Jareth's perspective, so don't be confused by the "I"—it's Jareth.**

* * *

I loved a woman, once.

In the passions of my youth, when the thrill of magic and new life still coursed through my frame, the mystical energy within me filled my soul with a wild euphoria that I mistook for emotion. I was but an infant in the world (in wisdom and experience but not in body), and I thus became enraptured with the fleeting frailty of humanity.

I walked the faerie mists often, then. They were nearer civilization and still filled men and women with trepidation and not a small amount of fear—rightly so. It was only when they receded that I became confined so narrowly to my Labyrinth. In the early days of Man, I walked among them unseen unless I wished it otherwise. They feared me, worshipped me, and sent me their children to appease what they perceived as lust for human sacrifice—and also to rid their society of the, shall we say, less desirable personalities.

I thought myself benevolent—so kind to rid them of their mischievous, nay—wicked children. They thought me a god, and I let them. A pity I did not see them for what they were—mealy, groveling fools enraptured with their own finitude and boorish morality. As it was, they captivated me.

One morning, I chanced upon a delicate flower, its face turned to bask in the sun's soft rays and as I watched, entranced by its insubstantial beauty, the most glorious song burst forth from its lips. It seared my soul with its loveliness. The very transience of it enthralled me—so new was I in my immortality that I thought frangibility all loveliness in its alienness.

Her name was—well I've quite forgotten it now, but I found it lovely then—fool that I was. And she was lovely, too, even by immortal standards. Her fair hair framed her creamy skin in silken waves the color of freshly strained honey; her eyes were the color of a sunlit glade and golden flecks danced across the green in her eyes like the sun on the sea. She was a princess of an important kingdom in the human realm and I rushed to seduce her, entrance her with my magic and immortality. She fell under my spell willingly, suddenly and violently; she, captivated by my power and I, her frailty. I spent hours in her amusement and she showered me with all that my youthful passions could yearn for—however illogical and unseemly they were for a creature like myself.

But she was as fickle as she was corruptible and not long had I wooed her when she most suddenly turned on me. I assumed that my might and immortality would keep her attached to me for as long as her youthful charms and delicate exoticism appealed to my sensibilities. I miscalculated the seductive prowess of Man. I returned from my kingdom one summer's eve to find her in the embrace of not merely a lover, but her husband. Apparently, she had wed in my absence. It would have been enough to find her betrothed or even forcibly given to another at her parent's behest, but the foolish, foppish prince I found her with had been _her_ choice for a husband.

Enraged, I vowed revenge on the fragile creature and her inconsequential mate. But it could not be an ordinary vengeance, such as the petty creature had no doubt heard of in the tales and ballads of her lands. No, it must be higher, crueler, and utterly magical: something she and her world would never forget.

One human year later, I had my chance. From my domain I had watched her tempestuous first year of so called marital bliss—her pinched, wan face curved to roundness by the convexity of a crystal orb. I watched with inner delight as she writhed in agony on a bed soaked with sweat and birthing fluid, grasping the sheets in her lily-white hands and screaming in pain as a crown of blood-slicked black hair pushed its way from within her into the world. I smiled, and then took flight into moonless sky—winged vengeance in search of recompense.

The sheen of sweat had barely evaporated from her brow when I appeared. I watched her breasts rise and fall evenly with her subdued breathing, her legs still bent from her recent efforts. The midwife had left the room to fetch the father, so the lady and I were alone with the infant. So affixed were her eyes on her newly born son that she did not see me until I was standing directly beside her. The gold in her eyes tarnished with fear and she clutched the babe to her naked breast as if she could hide it within her very skin. She was a cornered animal, yet she lacked the necessary courage to amply threaten me with her wild looks. Courage evaporated into terror.

Black was my garment and visage; no longer the immortal lover come to caress his human concubine, I towered over her prostrate form. The scent of blood and sweat wafted toward me in cloying tendrils and behind me, lightning split the sky and thunder added its furious cacophony to echo the wrathful intentions of my bloodless heart. Magic crackled across my skin in faint blue lines and power coursed through me in heady omnipotence. Another flash of light ripped the darkness and her eyes flicked to the coal black sky without her window, its inky depths crisscrossed with a net of white fire.

"The child is mine," I told her, not bothering to lesson the force of my wrath by asking politely for what was rightfully mine. She shivered in horror, clutching the child tightly until he began to cry. She shook her head violently, mutely. I brushed aside her resistance like a speck of dirt from my robes.

"Don't worry," I soothed her, undoing her fingers from around the child and placing him within the welcoming circle of my waiting arms. "He'll make a fine goblin one day."

She shrieked. I laughed and as a bolt of lightning struck the ground outside her window, I vanished from her sight. Though she never saw me or her child again, I watched her creep into a slow death until, in the end, her misery overcame her, leaving her husband both a widower and childless. Had she only known the inconstancy of her own mate—who, not a month, later had remarried and impregnated a new queen—she might have come to understand the harsh reality of the essential fleetingness of human affection.

But in death life has no teacher and I have since learned to distrust and despise the mortal race that abides so near. Time overcame my youthful folly and the allure of magic's vivacity has lost its appeal. After all, I was created to be its master and protector, not its slave. Except for a few minor outbursts of annoyance against the wearisome company that plagues my halls, I may safely say I am free from that disease humans call passion. The denizens of my kingdom have learned that cruel amusement and mischief are my favored sentiments; they dread my vengeance and it does not bode well for them to anger me. But love? No. I may safely say I have outgrown that feeble, disgusting human emotion.

* * *

**The Ballad of Princess Mjaðveig**

Lily of hand and fair of face

Waves of honey cascade down her back

She treads the ground with snow-white feet

The Golden Princess Mjaðveig

When morning dawns on the rolling hills

Her breath and song awaken the sun

A lilting tune of beauty and grace

The Fairest Princess Mjaðveig

Princes and kings from distant shores

Came to woo her golden hand

The rose of the land, fair was she

The Maiden Princess Mjaðveig

But one bright morn, when dew gleamed bright

A dark king from a darker realm

Espied the golden daughter singing

Then Loved the Princess Mjaðveig

With magic spells and dark enchantments

He seduced her to his bed

Then she became his lover fair

And Lost was Princess Mjaðveig

Cold of face and dark of power

The wind and storm were at his call

With cruel smile and mischievous gleam

He stole the Princess Mjaðveig

Long were the years of her enspellment

Till at last a strong prince freed her

She threw off the shackles of her faerie lover

Victorious Princess Mjaðveig

A Queen at last, in her own right

She filled her kingdom with light and virtue

Till a child was born, a son to rule

And Glad was Princess Mjaðveig

A storm broke out the night she birthed

The lightning flashed with fury

The owl of doom foretold her fate

The Weary Princess Mjaðveig

Her immortal lover returned to find

His enchantments were but dust

"Foul child of man, regret thy deeds,

Thou Faithless Princess Mjaðveig"

With strangled cry she grasped the babe

To shield him from the wicked king

But stronger by far was his twisted power

Than Valiant Princess Mjaðveig

"Fear not, dear maid, for your newborn child

I'll raise him with all care

A fine, bold goblin princeling, he

To Remember Princess Mjaðveig"

His cruel laughter echoed

As the princess wept for sorrow

And none could offer solace for

The Grieving Princess Mjaðveig

When sorrow's weight could be born no more

And her heart had beat its last

She sighed one last, long weary breath

Then Died, the Princess Mjaðveig

They laid her head 'midst flowers and sun

Within a golden meadow

And there the birds will ever sing

O'er Golden Princess Mjaðveig


	3. Chapter 3

"I wish the goblins really would come and take you away, right now."

Her voice woke me from slumber. The whining petulance and petty hate buzzed like a fly in my ear. It had been so long since I had heard a human voice beckoning me—too long. I had forgotten the scintillating delight of being summoned, the tantalizing thrill of a human voice speaking my name—like hearing from a long-estranged lover. After the long decades of silence, her peevish drone was a siren's call to my starved soul.

Yet I was taken by surprise, so much so, that I let my minions precede me in answering her summons. They wouldn't mind, though she might. Nevermind the girl, what mattered was child; the goblins would safeguard his removal. In the interval, I sat on my throne for a long moment, savoring the call—tasting it on my tongue. It was delectable, mouth-watering. Immediately I wanted more—more of her voice, more of her words beckoning me, echoing across space and time to reach me. I savored her spiteful cadence and the power of the Labyrinth, long dormant, was aroused by her reckless tone. Whatever else happened, I needed her and the feelings she stirred in me. I would not let her go easily.

It was thus that she called to me, drew me out of my kingdom and offered me the child. What a beautiful child he was, even an immortal child of magic could see the potential handsomeness in his bawling face. Truly a worthy offering. Even through his tears I perceived that he was a healthy, robust specimen—the perfect addition to my kingdom and better than any child that had entered my kingdom in a thousand years. Perhaps—I stopped to think for a millisecond— perhaps I would make him my heir, but not yet. First, I must deal with the girl—the lovely, petulant mother who wanted nothing more than to be rid of her beautiful child.

I was feeling impish, overly excited by being called out of my doldrums, so I showed myself to her. I had not done that in eons; the last time…well, the older children died of fright and I believe the mother went mad. Such a pity, she had been delectably fragile.

But this girl…she showed no signs of fear, only regret. An interesting emotion, regret—not that I know from personal experience, only from observation—it intrigues me that one can so soon unwish words spoken or a deed done. What's done cannot be undone and what's said can never be unsaid; why inflict pain upon oneself on account of the immutable? Such a waste.

She claimed she did not mean what she'd said, that she was repentant and wished to unsay her careless, spiteful words. Too many lies and too late. Had she not meant it, she would never have said it. I have seen enough of this frail creature called Man to know that he always means what he says. Regret is an emotion born from guilt and fear of consequences.

She wouldn't stop talking, pleading with me to give her brother back—brother? That piqued my interest at once. I had assumed the raven-haired girl to be his mother; she was of the appropriate age and rarely did another family member wish away a child. (It never boded well for the wicked sibling to have his or her wishes discovered by the parents.) Mother I had expected, but brother? This made it all the more fascinating. She would want to assuage her guilt and her parents by returning her brother safe and sound. If I chose to believe her words, she wished to avoid any acknowledgement of tonight's events. She was desperate and would do anything for the helpless infant. How deliciously amusing.

But I would not be cowed into submission. All her high flung words were but lies and false guilt. And yet….a lingering regard for the girl restrained me—an intangible magnetism drew me toward her, a smile playing about my lips as I beheld her tussled hair and pale, tear-streaked cheeks. I don't recall what intrigued me the most, her lack of fear or the fact that such a girl would so readily relinquish her brother to my power yet just as readily wish him back again. He must have done something heinous to deserve her wrath. Or, perhaps she truly did not understand what she was saying. I shook myself mentally, breaking her spell over me. The truth of her actions did not matter; the child was rightfully mine by her own admission.

Despite my strength of will, I found myself scrutinizing her features even more closely. In her desperation, she was a lovely creature, though no more than a child herself. Old enough to mother a child in the old earth days, but she looked, and acted, like an overgrown goblin in the throws of a tantrum. Even the downward curve of her lips, hovering between sulkiness and audacity, couldn't detract from her ravishing beauty. (I have always been a connoisseur of beauty, however fleeting the human kind is.) Her raven hair framed her face most prettily and her jade green eyes—filled to the brim with crocodile tears—sparkled intermittently as the lighting flared behind me. Had it been another time, and I, a younger creature, I would have wooed her right then and there, promising her brother in exchange for her devotion. But I am no longer that man and, from her demeanor, I imagine she would not have been amenable to amorous pursuits.

A thought struck me—a wager most vile, for it was one she was doomed to lose. But it could wait, for she was not through attempting to squeeze blood from my stony heart.

"I want my brother back, if it's all the same," She pleaded. I almost believed her sincerity. Almost.

"Sarah"—her name rang like the chime of a bell off my tongue—"Sarah, what's said is said." I smiled benignly but it glanced off of her like pebbles against a wall.

"I didn't mean it!" She was almost begging now. "Where is he?"

I told her. (Where else would he be since she so flippantly wished him away?) She refused to accept the truth—I'd never met a human so truculent in the face of the indisputable fact of my power. If she insisted on acting like a child, I would treat her like one. "Sarah, go back to your room."

She impolitely declined. What did I have to do with this girl? Ah, a gift, a delightful bauble for the mewling youth and perhaps she would give up the foolish nonsense of getting the baby back. I summoned a crystal, but what would I offer? I probed the fringes of her mind in search of her heart's desire. Intrigued I touched it lightly, letting the warmth of her thoughts flow into me before allowing them to ebb. I pulled the magic back instantaneously and formed what I'd seen into an image in the crystal. Perhaps she would accept her dreams in exchange for the baby—romantic dreams and irresistible.

"Do you want it?" I could see the greed in her eyes, a flicker of want—nay need. She was lonely, intent on losing herself in the dream world she created to avoid the pain of rejection from her parents and peers. For one second, I thought she would take it—the glowing orb of promise in my outstretched hand.

I misjudged her. Flinging away her own desires, she fixed her mind on the babe. She wanted her brother back. My anger rose. How dare she—this slip of a girl no older than the oak sapling growing outside her window—how _dare_ she defy me? Who was she to contradict the Goblin King? Who was she to think herself capable of thwarting me? I, who was created before her ancestors were even a thought in the mind of the world. I, who commanded the power of all magic at my fingertips, who even the fairies held in reverence. I am the Lord of the Underground, the master of the Labyrinth and the ruler and protector of power. I am Jareth, Goblin King! _She cannot do this!_

"Sarah," I warned, barely able to conceal the wrath simmering in my veins. "Don't defy me." It was a warning. She did not heed it.

Aghast at her tenacity, my anger quickly dissipated in favor of guile. This girl required a different tack: cunning, subtlety rather than brute force and threats. My mind recalled the wager I had disregarded. Yes, I would test her—a grueling task to see if she were in fact as worthy an opponent as she purported herself to be. If challenging the Goblin King was her desire, she would have it, and a hundredfold.

I chuckled at my own ingenuity and drew her to my kingdom without her ever being away that she'd left her room. Thirteen hours I gave her—plenty of time to fail. Her downfall should prove amusing. If nothing else, it would ease my boredom and provide entertainment to the excitement-starved goblins infesting my castle. In time, she would come to understand the consequences of foolish words and summoning the Goblin King. But for now, she would suffer for her insolence.


	4. Chapter 4

Back within the confines of my kingdom, I swiftly returned to the throne room to see to the babe—no doubt the goblins had already poked, prodded, dragged and leered the child into a crying fit. As pitiful as I find human spawn to be—naked, mewling, helpless and completely devoid of the dignity humanity so often clings to in ragged shreds—despite my inclination to disdain the impotent creature, I find myself drawn to it instead. How strange; perhaps...? But no, now is not the time to contemplate my virility. I must see to the babe.

I sighed heavily; the beasts were mercilessly mischievous and had no concept of how fragile an infant's psyche was. The years of wickedness have distorted their minds; they no longer recall being human. I imagined the boy frantic with misery and beset by a hundred gargoyle faces attempting to make him laugh but only succeeding in making him bawl at an increasingly ear-splitting pitch. I wasn't wrong.

My entrance did little to impede their games, but a few well-placed kicks with my boots cleared a swath of open floor around the screaming child. The sight of familiar human-like features elicited a flurry of urgent yelps from the boy and he clung to my leg—foreign as it was—as though I were his mother in disguise.

A goblin scuttled across the floor, his hands cupped tightly together—cradling something in the cavern between them. He reached the boy's side and flung the contents of his grubby paws at the boy's head. With a loud croak and a disgusting squish, a medium sized mud brown frog landed on the babe's head.

Shocked, the boy paused mid-wail, his blue eyes wide as he slowly reached his pudgy fingers to his hair. The frog immediately hopped out of reach and onto the floor—escaping a dozen sinewy fingers clutching at it by squeezing between a crack under the dais. The creature would ultimately be found and probably stewed, or disemboweled by a curious goblin, but for now it was safe. The little boy burst into a fresh wave of searing cries as the goblins erupted into pandemonium—half were laughing at the boy while the others lamented the loss of the wayward amphibian by beating his neighbor with whatever implement he could find.

The boy was practically climbing my leg, so I picked him up and—stepping over the crush of creatures prying at the gap in the stones—returned to my throne, babe in hand. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and stuffed it into his mouth, no doubt his way of thanking me for rescuing him from the demonic faces and their cruel games. Bored, I allowed my thoughts to drift elsewhere.

Something had to be done about the girl; I rejected the option of allowing her wandering the mists outside the Labyrinth. For one thing, it would be terribly dull to defeat her so easily. For another, the fairies might discover her and take pity on her, demanding that I return her brother out of respect for privacy. (Since the mists had receded, my neighbors have found human intrusion into our lands most unsatisfactory and I have had to limit my amusements at their expense a great deal. Fairies could be such a nuisance.) But on the other hand, the girl must not succeed in her quest (not that I'm worried on that count, but one must take precautions). What to do? I needed someone I could trust to lead her astray, but unobtrusively so. She must trust him, but he would be loyal to me. And I knew just the man for the job—or rather, dwarf.

"Higwit?" For some reason, I knew that wasn't his name, but I didn't care. Names mean so little in the light of eternity; why learn his name when his span in my service would be so short compared to my lifetime? He never seemed to mind anyway.

At once, a short, bulbous fellow appeared as if from nowhere. In fact, he came from a trapdoor, though he knew very well that the front door of the throne room was a more direct route from his home. However, I think he enjoyed the effect his sudden appearance had on the goblins since I caught a distinctly self-important gleam in his eyes as he watched my minions scatter in all directions, falling over and under each other in frantic disarray—ants in a rainstorm.

He mumbled something under his breath, fingering his prized jewel pouch at his waist before grunting, "Er, what can I do fer ya, Jareth, er, yer highness, sir?"

"I have a problem I'd like for you to deal with, Hedgewart, a girl."

The dwarf flushed slightly, "A, er, what? I mean, beggin' yer pardon, highness, sir?"

"Come, come, you heard me quite clearly. You're not deaf, a _girl._ She's wandering around outside the Labyrinth and I would like for you to let her in."

"L-l-let her in?" He stuttered.

"Yes, let her in—after letting her stew about it, of course," I gave the dwarf a vile grin; he shuddered. "Get her to trust you, make friends with her if you must, but always remember that she is not to get beyond the Endless Tunnel. If she does, take her back to the beginning. You must, ostensibly, be her guide but in truth, you shall be my instrument of foiling her success. Do you understand?"

The little man wrung his grimy hands and swallowed hard. I could see the cogs in his brain whirling, trying to discover what was in it for him—greedy little bugger.

"If you do as I say, I'll give you the prized emerald ring you've been admiring in my collection." His face paled, small beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and his eyes darted shiftily to his feet.

"The, er, what?" He mumbled.

"Come, come, Higglesly, I've seen you eyeing it. Don't be ashamed. You can have it if you succeed." His eyes brightened lustily and the color returned to his cheeks. "But if you fail," he turned pale again. "I'll throw you headlong into the Bog of Eternal Stench."

The dwarf turned nearly translucent with fright. I knew he hated, and feared me, but he served me nonetheless because he was a coward and I held the power over what he feared most in the world: the Bog of Eternal Stench.

I can safely, and proudly, say that Bog was not one of my ideas. A particularly nasty goblin with the mind of a two-year-old human boy came up with the bright idea to have a plot of land entirely devoted to the most disgusting smells in the world. He thought it good fun and I humored him because I needed a punishment that the peace-loving fae could not object to. Stench is universally considered both benign and horrific—the perfect damnation that I could assign with impunity. Few enjoy smelling fetid and rank, and dwarves least of all. Thus I threatened the little man before me with the worst possible fate he could imagine. It worked.

"Oh, I'll do it, Jareth, yer highness, sir," he said hastily, springing to attention. "I'll make sure the girl don't get further than the Tunnel, never you mind. I'll be the perfect guide, er, non-guide, sir."

"Very good, Hogsmith you may go. I believe the lady is in need of your 'assistance' now. Here, take this with you. It will give you something to do to keep her from getting suspicious."

He eyed the can I tossed him warily, but accepted it without protest and scurried out of the room to fulfill his obligation. Before he reached the door, I cleared my throat; he paused mid-step, his left foot hovering ominously above the unseen toad at his feet.

"Oh, Haggerdy, don't forget: she's human," my lips curled involuntarily into a sneer; a nearby goblin yelped, scuttling behind a wine cask. "No matter what she says or how honeyed her lips, she's a vile, manipulative whore only interested in using you to get her way. Trust me, I know."

The little dwarf shivered, no doubt frightened at the thought of such a heartless foe. After he left, I chuckled to myself as I summoned a crystal to watch the unfolding drama.

* * *

My first sight was of the creature I'd so recently dismissed, the dwarf was shamelessly pissing in my reflecting pool—I'd have to punish him for that later. A few days in an oubliette ought to teach him proper respect for his master's things. The girl arrived, abashed at what she had nearly avoided seeing—an encroaching goblin snickered gleefully at her embarrassment and even I couldn't hold back a smirk. Setting the now quiet child on the floor, I turned my full attention to the girl, not caring whence her brother wandered. I could always find him.

Entranced, I watched her struggle to find an opening in the solid walls of the Labyrinth. On her own, she would never have been able to figure it out, of that I was certain. At the back of my mind, a faint voice whispered, _are you so certain? What if she is smarter than you give her credit for? What if she wins?_ I shook my head, silencing the voice. "No," I whispered. "She will never win. She can't. She's just a girl, a _human_ girl." Refocusing on the orb instead of the niggling doubt, I was interrupted by the serpentine face of my Chief of the Guards, one goblin Oglith by name. Or was it Orgluck? Orogund? Grondhammer? No definitely not that. Grondhammar was the goblin unfortunate enough to try wrestling a troll. The remains had been foul and no amount of magic could erase the thin sheen of slime coating the southwest wall of the goblin town square. Oxspit—that was his name. Sometimes, I hate goblins.

"Yes?" I barked impatiently, annoyed that he had interrupted my meditations.

"Sorry to interrupt your highness," he hissed slowly, "but there's a beast loose in the gardens."

"Yeah, yeah," a slight, squeaky goblin added, jumping up and down excitedly. "One of those rock-calling thingies."

A chorus of "Yeah, yeah, a rock-caller!" erupted from the troop of guards at the Oxspit's heels.

"Well, get rid of it! Why are you standing around here instead of capturing the beast? Hmmm?"

"I though it best to inform you, sire," Oxspit murmured. "And I wanted your permission to, eh, punish the beast, if it suits you."

"Fine, do whatever you want. Only please don't make a mess of my gardens. I'd rather not repeat the episode with the swampkat."

"Thank you, sire," Oxspit bowed low and rising, led his excited band of squabbling goblins out of the throne room. A few others tagged along, probably to watch. Despite the loathing his name aroused, Oxspit was a very useful goblin to have around. Less mischievous than the others, he lent a crass sort of dignity to his fellow goblins that made me almost like him. He, at least, recognized that too much mischief breeds chaos, and that true devilry requires structure and order, lest it become insipid.

But now, back to the girl…after I find the baby. He seems to have disappeared and a few of the stupider goblins are looking hungry.

* * *

**I hope you are all enjoying the story so far. I apologize for the sporadic nature of the posting, but alas, being in a doctoral program inhibits my ability to indulge in enjoyable writing. I would write more if I had time, so bear with me, write reviews to keep me motivated (and from tearing my eyes out from my schoolwork) and enjoy the ride! Thanks for reading, you guys are the best!**

**Oh, and remember, I will personally thank all of you who write a review and/or favorite this story when I finally finish. :D  
**


	5. Chapter 5

_Think. She's coming. Faster. Faster. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Left turn. Right turn. Faster. Faster. She's coming. She's coming. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Think. What to do? What can I do? How to stop her? What can I do? Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…. Think. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

The ticking of the clock resolved into the restless slap of leather on leather. The mist faded from my eyes at the same time as I felt the distant tap of my riding crop on my boot. I must have blacked out or fallen asleep, nothing else could explain the feverish drone of thoughts now fading into the distant corners of my mind. _Something about a clock? _No, I shook my head. The strange twitch of my fingers that caused my crop to slap rhythmically against my leg must have aroused that particular image. There was nothing to worry about; the girl was safely in the hands of my spy and she would get no further than the Endless Corridor.

"Get off me!" The high indignant squeak cut through my musings, followed by a pitiful wail that could only belong to the boy.

"Nah, you geroff!" A second goblin voiced rejoined. "Get out of the way!"

"What are you talking about Frumlin?" The first voice replied. "_You _get out of the way!"

I sighed, bored by the tedious whine of voices. I should leave and find peace elsewhere, but sensing another like himself nearby, the child Toby turned his puffy, red, tear-streaked face toward me. His big blue eyes pleaded with me to turn chaos into order and a spark of inspiration struck me.

I grasped the nearest goblin by the scruff of the neck, "You remind me of the babe."

"What babe?" His bulging eyes filled with confusion and not a small amount of fear as a flick of my fingers summoned a chorus of music to fill the throne room.

"The babe with the _power_."

"What power?" Another answered, intrigued.

Grinning, I chanted, "The power of _voodoo_."

Confusion. "Who do?"

"_You_ do."

Fear. "Do what?"

"Remind me of the babe!" I picked up the nearest goblin and threw him. The rest laughed raucously, but too soon.

"_Quiet!_" Toby turned to look at me, his attention rapt. I wagged a gloved finger at his pudgy face. "A Goblin baby!" He giggled. The rest of my subjects didn't get the joke. _By the gods, do I have to explain it to them?_ "Well?"

An inkling of comprehension dawned on some of them and they started to laugh. The rest joined so as not to appear stupid. _Too late. _

By this time, I was in my element and, ignoring the insipid faces around me, chose to enjoy the moment and focus on getting the babe to enjoy himself. I didn't stop to ask myself why the feelings of a toddler should matter to me, why I should care if Toby was having fun or if he was screaming for his mother. I'd never cared before but then again, I usually didn't allow the family a chance to undo their wishes. I never questioned that decision either. I was doing a lot of spontaneous thinking today and only upon later reflection would I come to regret the decisions made out of boredom and revenge. For now, I was content to sing, dance and kick my subjects around for their own amusement. They are such silly creatures, but I have to admit, I enjoy them.

* * *

"Dance magic, dance; jump magic jump…"

"Put that magic spell on me. Slap her baby, making fee…."

"Thas not the words, Snagglebrat. It's 'Clap my baby, steak and cheese.'"

"No itsnot! It's 'Snap my lady, break him free.'"

"You're all wrong. It's 'Slap that baby…"

The goblin voices faded into the distance and soon the only sound I could hear was the sharp click of my boots on the stone floor. I needed a breath of fresh air after the exertion—the smell of wine, rotting food and goblin sweat hung in the air of the throne room, permeating everything. I couldn't think straight with the fetid stank assaulting my nostrils so I resolved to take a short walk down the hall.

I found a window at a safe distance from the throne room and sat down on the ledge. A deep sense of self-satisfaction stole over me as I recollected how easily I had been able to entertain the child with my antics. _I still haven't lost my touch after all these centuries._ _I'm still as beguiling as ever, and quite a handsome devil, too,_ I mused. I'd seen the way the girl had looked at me in the bedroom, that is, after she'd overcome her fear. I'd seen her eyes—so coyly nonchalant—flick down to my tight breeches and widen with worldly comprehension. So, too, had I understood why she could not keep her eyes from my face. Nor could she hide the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks as her gaze had lingered on my mouth. No, I was not unaware of my appeal. She probably hoped I had been too intent on my purpose to notice. Humans, especially women, could be painstakingly obvious in their attempts to be shy.

I grinned into the sunlight as I contemplated what it would be like to tease her, to use my sexual appeal to make her understand herself a bit more. This girl-child who thinks herself a woman, oh yes, she would know herself to be not quite as intent upon the child as she presumed. The temptation would be slow, subtle and the victory would be sweet. I would make her want me and by that, she would be undone. She would forget about the baby and I would rule over her.

A muted sigh brought me to the present. Toby, exhausted from dance, was sleeping in my arms. A soft breeze played with the blond curls on his forehead and I was immediately bewitched by it. I caught a tendril between my gloved thumb and forefinger; the backs of my knuckles caressed his forehead. He stirred at my light touch but instead of waking, he snuggled closer. Supposing my chest to be his bed and my clothes, his bedding, the fist furthest from me closed around one of the white folds of my shirt before the thumb found its way into the searching pucker of his lips.

I couldn't help but find him beautiful.I drew my breath in sharply and it caught in my throat in a most unsatisfactory way. Whence came this unnatural feeling in my chest? For as I stared at the sleeping child a sudden stab of warmth—radiating outward from my left breast—was spreading through my body like an unseen cancer.

Instantly disgusted, instinct demanded that I toss the sleeping infant out the window to shatter on the rocks below—the softness of his flesh and my feelings splattered against the eternal foundation of my castle. I felt my right arm twitch in anticipation and my mouth curl into a sneer. I could be rid of the child and the nuisance of the girl in one sweep of my arms. She would weep, the goblins would laugh and I would wear cruelty as a mask, my insides cold as the Frozen Wastelands.

My gaze dropped to the Labyrinth in contemplation of the girl's defeat. I wanted to _see_ her struggling through the maze I had long ago created to taunt witless humans. In that moment, I wanted, no _needed_, to watch her inevitable defeat unfolding itself in the panorama of my genius.

Conceit gave way to vexation when she could not be found. Were she still within the Endless Corridor, I would have seen her. Yet no matter how piercingly I searched the distant stretch of limestone walls, the puffy white cloud of her sleeves eluded me. I ground my teeth in anger and searched again. Perhaps she was slumped on the ground, her body hidden by one of the walls? Yet even still I should have been able to glimpse her jet-black hair—darker than a starless sky and equally as evocative—the inky smudge glaringly obvious against the parchment colored stone.

Anxiety warred with rage as I ran from my perch to the throne room, the babble of the goblins floating in the air like gnats. I mentally swatted them away and swept onto the dais. All thought for Toby's repose fled and I tipped him unceremoniously onto my throne. He blinked sleep-filled eyes at me and began to whimper. Heedless of his discomfiture, I summoned a crystal and turned my back on him.

"Find the girl," I whispered harshly. Immediately an image flared to life in the crystalline heart of the orb. Robed in sickly yellow light, the girl sat bewildered on the ground. A fine coating of cobwebs clung to her hair, rendering her already woeful state well nigh despairing. I could have pitied her if she were not my enemy. Even then, I probably wouldn't. Pity is not in my nature.

Comprehension followed swift upon the heels of recognition. "She's in the oubliette," I stated flatly.

Having crept upon me while my attention was on the crystal, my goblin retinue chortled gleefully. Somewhere in the background, both unseen and unheard by the hordes of gruesome creatures, Toby began to wail.

"Shut up!" Fueled by my recent annoyance at the faint stirrings of emotion in my breast, I could not endure their banality. "She shouldn't have gotten as far as the oubliette. She should have given up by now." A tiny hobgoblin of Doubt uncurled itself from the far recesses of my mind, where I had banished it earlier this afternoon.

"She'll never give up," quipped a long-nosed goblin helpfully. I detested him from that moment onward. Perhaps later I shall devise a fitting punishment for him, that is, when I've seen to the girl. A dunk in the Bog should serve him, or perhaps a night in the Nipper cages.

The Doubt shuffled a bit and rose into a crouch, unsure whether or not to stand up and declare its presence. "Won't she?" it whispered. Its words fell upon my ears in the guise of my own voice and it took me only a second to realize that I had spoken aloud.

I had to assuage the Doubt, compel it back into its corner. "The dwarf (what was his name?) is about to lead her back to the beginning. She'll soon give up once she realizes she has to start all over again."

The words sounded hallow but I attempted a forced chuckle in the hopes that goblin over-confidence would make up for my own lack thereof. Unfortunately for them, I had to order them to laugh—thickheaded numbskulls. Nevertheless, the plan worked as I'd hoped and with their exuberance ringing in my ears, I felt the Doubt slump down and cower in the darkness—much as the girl must be doing at this moment.

And yet…_what if the dwarf is a traitor?_ _What if the girl succeeds?_ I swept the dry whisperings away like so many leaves and consigned them to the oubliette where they belonged.

* * *

**I apologize that this has taken so long to update. Alas, being a PhD student does not afford me as much time to write for pleasure as I would like. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and, although I make no promises, I will try to update more swiftly in the coming weeks and months. I'm getting the hang of my school work now and I think I'll be able to make more time to write. Love you all! Keep reading and keep reviewing!**

**Love,**

**Nienna  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Regardless of appearances, I have always valued Truth. She has been my constant companion in these mists I inhabit; indeed she has never left my side. To her, unlike myself, I have not always been kind. I may abuse her or distort her, but I have always respected her. She is the lover that I may scorn in time of need or boredom, but will never forsake. I will never abandon her. She nags me, cajoles me, berates me and seduces me in turn; I am quite possibly a better King with her at my side, whether she is better or worse for the wear at my side is an altogether different matter.

Today, Truth was hiding from me; she whispered in the halls but when I sought her, she scurried behind curtains or faded into the shadows. Her cousin, Doubt nagged at me in her stead—a bitter, haggard old wench with rotting teeth and withered hands. I loathed the sight of her, but the stench was even worse, worse to me even than the fearsome Bog.

_The dwarf cannot be trusted; the dwarf is a weakness you cannot afford. _Whose voice was this echoing in the cobwebs? _The girl is different; she is stronger than the others. The girl will triumph over you; you are in danger. Beware!_ What infernal mistress was this? Were these words a siren song to lead me to destruction? Or was it Cassandra crying out to me of fire and doom?

I had to know what the dwarf was doing. I couldn't sit idly by and allow for the possibility that my agent was going to double cross me. He must be warned.

A flick of my finger showed me where he was. In the spinning crystal, I could see his squat frame shambling down the Corridor of Faces. He was going the wrong way, or rather the right way.

The crystal crumbled to dust and the pulverized fragments cascaded through my gloved fingers to mingle with the dirt floor unnoticed. In an instant, I had transported myself to the tunnel—a crystal to guide the recalcitrant dwarf fell soundlessly from my fingers. My nose lengthened and hooked downward; my eyes misted over with cataracts and my hands withered into claws. My clothes smelled of dust, neglect and piss. They would never recognize the wizened beggar as their king.

_They must be stopped._ I gazed wrathfully into the metal cup in my now-gnarled hands and I couldn't tell whether my eyes were blinded more by magic or by my wrath. I struggled to compose myself; I needed ice in my veins, not fire. I breathed deeply of my own stench to clear my head. In the distance, the sound of crystal rolling across the ground heralded the approach of my nemesis; the fire in my veins sputtered and died to be replaced with cool calculation and mischief. I smiled beneath the wide, dark brim of my hat. All was well, or very soon would be.

The orb rounded the corner of a stony outcropping several yards in front of me. Without swerving, it rolled to my feet and hopped into my cup. I looked up in time to see the girl and her traitorous guide come around the corner.

I grimaced menacingly, "Well, well, well. What have we here?"

The dwarf's eyebrows waggled nervously, "N-n-nothing."

He expected anger. I obliged. "Nothing? Nothing, tra la la?" I do not flatter myself when I say that I made the transformation from blind beggar to imposing king quite majestically. A sweep of my arm and the façade rolled away.

Nerves gave way to terror and the dwarf stepped back, cowed by my presence. "Your Majesty," he choked, "what a nice surprise."

_Lies. _"Hello Hedgewart." He wriggled like a grub. Disgusting.

"Hogwart," the girl objected protectively.

"_Hoggle!_"

"Hoggle, can it be that you're _helping_ this girl?" I permitted an undertone of "Bog of Eternal Stench" to creep into my tone.

"H-h-helping?" He licked his lips. "In what sense do you mean?"

I sighed; this was taking too long. Talking to an idiot is worse than talking to a goblin. At least goblins get to the point, however nonsensical it is. "In the sense that you're leading her straight towards the castle."

"I was taking her to the beginning! Honest!"

"What?" The girl was furious—hurt pride mingled with surprise, an intoxicating (and potentially volatile) combination.

"You see, I _told_ her I would help her" _I'm sure you did._ "A little trickery on my part." _Liar_. "But actually—"

"What's that round your wrist?"

"Oh." He looked down blankly at the bauble jangling ludicrously from his leather-skinned wrist. "Oh, this! Oh my goodness where did this come from?"

_Idiot_. "If I thought for one second you were betraying me," I paused dramatically to allow his eyes time to widen in fear. "I would be forced to suspend you, headfirst, into the Bog of Eternal Stench."

"No, Your Majesty," he groveled pitifully. "Not the Eternal Stench!"

"Oh yes, Hoggle!" I looked up from the dwarf's hideous face to the sublime ivory planes of the enemy. Her green eyes were wide with innocence and fear; her lips half-parted as she strove to control her emotions. Even beneath the generous fabric of her overlarge shirt, I could see the roundness of her breasts heaving in time with her breath. An idea unfurled like thunderclouds on the horizon. She was well on the way to becoming a woman and I knew exactly how to tempt women.

"And you, Sarah," I let her name fall from my lips like honey. "How are you enjoying my Labyrinth?"

My face was inches from hers and I had purposely moved my hips closer to hers on the word "Labyrinth." Her heart was beating so hard I could hear it; the sound of the blood rushing to her face was louder than a waterfall to my sensitive, superhuman ears.

"It's," she faltered (I swear her eyes flicked downward) and, surprisingly, recovered. "It's a piece of cake." She thrust her shoulders forward in an attempted nonchalance.

I heard Hoggle moan behind me and I sneered at her, "Really? Then how about upping the stakes?" I pointed at a clock that had materialized behind me. The dials spun furiously forward and her doom hastened.

"That's not fair!" She cried out petulantly—a spoiled child rather than a woman.

She was boring; for an inexplicable reason, I expected more fire from her, more passion. "You say that so often. I wonder what your basis for comparison is." Disappointed and frustrated by the encounter, I turned my back to her. "The Labyrinth's a piece of cake is it?" I muttered darkly. "Then let's see you deal with this little slice!"

Recognizing the ominous metallic clang, the dwarf—I'd already forgotten his name—shouted hysterically, "OH NO! It's the _Cleaners! RUN!"_

A cackle escaped my lips before I could stop it, caught on the whirling knives and shattered into pieces in the gloom. I liked how it sounded: mechanical, ominous, cold and triumphant. The laugh of a victor.

* * *

Listless, my thoughts drifted on the wind and little I cared to contain them. One strayed far afield, drifting over mountains and seas, creeping through hallowed halls and rustling in long-dead ruins like a ghost. It rambled among the gravestones as it passed them over; it raised a host of the dead to follow in its wake.

Faces paraded before me, dragging their rusted memories behind them. Many men and women had braved my Labyrinth over the centuries: some I dismissed forthwith, some turned back and fled to wander in the mists, some went mad, some perished. All of them failed.

Theseus, the brave hero of Greek myth was a failure. Of course, humans would never remember him that way because their psychology demanded that the weaker always triumph, the rational always defeat the mystical and surreal. The truth of their hero—that he fled screaming from my Labyrinth in fear, his yellow-stained tunic reeking of his own urine—will forever remain trapped with me in the mists. I pride myself of the colossal myth I wove myself into: the mighty Minotaur, half man, half bull and raging with bloodlust. The union of intelligence with raw power (the brute strength and bloodlust of the animal with the brilliance and logic of a human mind) engendered sheer terror in all men, even Theseus. Even now the memory of its hot breath and feral skin makes my blood boil with anticipation. I could become that monster again. I could terrorize the girl, make her crawl in the dust, beg for mercy as she soils herself…

Then there was Tohono, a dark skinned native who wandered into my Labyrinth completely by accident when he went into a trance. When I appeared to him, he fell on his face and worshipped me as a god; he was so frightened, so reverential that I acceded to his epithet. I was the god of the Labyrinth, the god of choice where every turn had potentially fatal consequences. He thought me god of the underworld itself and I did not dissuade him. The name gave me power over him; he bowed to my will and became my slave. When I dismissed him, he returned to his people to spread the story of _I'itoi, the Man in the Maze_. Yet what use have I of slaves? I have the goblins for entertainment and drudgery, my magic to serve my every whim; what need have I of human drones? Such victory is blasé and the sweet taste of it turned bland ere the memory faded. I want something more to slake my thirst; I crave a victory none but my equal could grant me. Such, I fear, I will never find in this world.

A host of lovers dead and gone assembled in his wake. Their dresses hung in tatters from their bony frames. Their once-beautiful faces, now rotten with time, gaped at me sardonically. Princess Mjaðveig, the once proud Viking daughter, opened her mouth to emit a silent scream for herself and for the squalling brat she birthed. I sneered at her and she vanished. The haughty face of an African tribal queen—her chocolate flesh now ashen with decay—turned stony with hate. One seductive curve of my lips and she melted into the dust. Thick lashes framing lavender eyes winked coyly from the heart-shaped face of a Parisian courtesan. I turned my face and she burst into jealous flames. A harpy's shriek and a dry _pop_ signaled her demise.

They had all loved me and I refused neither their adoration nor their bed. Some I had loved in return, given my heart and lost it to their beauty—a slave to their power as much as they were to mine. Power breeds lovers like poverty begets loneliness.

More faces passed before me. Bereaved women in search of their lost children, angry men in search of revenge. Boys on the threshold of manhood in search of adventure and renown. Girls barely into their childbearing years longing for mystery, romance, and a lover to make them feel beautiful. All of them seeking and none of them finding. All of them hoping to transcend their mundane existence but gaining only despair and heartache.

I have been called cruel. Perhaps I am. I have no interest in human concerns—war, fame, pride, theft, murder, jealousy, hope, and most of all: love. I have no need of these things. I am the Labyrinth King, Lord of the Labyrinth and Guardian of Magic. I have no need for human desires or feelings, least of all theirs. I am self-sufficient and immortal. I am a god.

And yet…

Something troubled me. As I stared at the shades of women I had loved (Can a god love one who is not his equal?) and lost, they suddenly began to ripple in the wind. A new face materialized in their stead. The filmy white-blond hair of Marie-Antoinette dissolved into blackness and _she_ stared back at me. The girl. The enemy. Her porcelain skin glowed in the sunlight and the contrast with her ebony hair was breathtaking. Her jade-green eyes flashed with inner fire and I was consumed in an instant.

If I was not extremely careful, her beauty could make me more a captive than I had ever been. Whatever happened, I must win, if not by force, then by seduction. She must be mine.

* * *

**A.N. : **_**I'itoi**_** is an actual myth of the Native American people group called the Tohono O'odham Nation. They believed that the maze represented one's journey through life. In the middle, one would find their dreams and goals, being given a final opportunity to look back on the path they'd taken through life before the Sun God ferried them into the afterlife.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This is an edit of a chapter previously submitted. Enjoy!  
**

* * *

Dark. For some reason (perhaps it is the gloom infecting my thoughts), I feel drawn to recall that first moment I was. Perhaps if I revisit myself I can conquer this Other, this Woman who eludes my every grasp.

So here I am, revisiting that first great Dark.

That was my first thought. Looking back, it is strange because not only did I lack eyes, but I had never known light, and therefore had no reason to call the atmosphere dark. The fine distinctions of light gradations and the color spectrum were foreign to me. To call my experience of the world as 'dark' made as much sense as an earthworm calling a cloud white or a plant crying out "How soft!" at the approach of a flock of sheep. I was blind, deaf, mute, and senseless. I could not imagine the world because I knew nothing but the vast expanse of dark.

Strange, too, that I had no reason to consider this darkness as outside myself. Perhaps I was the dark—throbbing, vast, and malleable Perhaps this feeling of warmth—the tender caress of the dark—was my own self-sensation. No, somehow I knew that this sensation of "dark" was both exterior to and foreign to myself—whatever 'myself' was. Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. Self-reflection belongs to the sentient and at the moment I am describing, I was anything but.

Dark. Power. Energy flowing, swirling, carrying me along. Am I the power? Perhaps. I feel it as if it is my very core—palpitating, whispering, humming with raw energy. But I don't have a core. Just the power and the flow and the dark.

Lightning. No. Light. Lighten. Lighten-ing. Lightening. The dark is fading to grey, then white. Blinding, cleansing, pure graceful white. No, bursts of color. A flash of blue. How do I know this? Somewhere inside me, an instinct knows the name of this brilliant flash of not-grey, not-white, not-dark substance. Blue. This _is_ blue. It could be no other.

The blue flickers out but the purity has been shattered, its virginity devastated by vibrant color. Enthralled, I see more colors, also instinctively known: green, orange, fuschia, yellow, brown, chartreuse, crimson. They burst and blink out in fractions of seconds, pulsing in and out of sight to the rhythm of the Power flowing through me. They are around me, but they are within me. I wallow in synesthetic glory. I feel _alive_.

Something new. Great swaths of colors shimmer into existence. I wait but they do not fade. An arc of light blue sits atop a sheet of mottled brown and green—a patchwork of mundane, earthy colors squat like dark smudges beneath the brilliant blue.

I want to touch the colors, swim in them and through them. I want to _feel _them, for inexplicably these colors do not pulse within me as the others had. I cannot taste the blue—mellow, cool and slippery on my tongue. When I think of the green blurs, no sharp, astringent scent assails my nostrils; these colors are not mine, they are not me.

I wonder, now, what is 'me,' for the distance I feel between myself and these shapeless colors makes me realize that there is a 'me' and a 'not me.' There is a 'thou' that exists apart from myself. Where before I had been formless, pervasive and effervescent, now I am contained, subdued and solid. It is a strange sensation. Strange, but not unpleasant. (What is 'unpleasant'? For that matter, what is 'pleasant'? I don't know yet.)

And yet…I can still hear the pulsing rhythm of the Power, so perhaps I am not so contained as I might appear. I do not yet understand what I am, but I do know now that I want more than ever to encounter the 'not me.' How can I understand what I am unless I understand what I am not? As of this moment, all I know is that I am _not_ the blue arc nor am I the mottled brown and green.

I want to move toward them and suddenly they are near. Do I control this obscure, hazy world around me? Am I that powerful? Do these blurs respond to my command? I am close enough that I can see that the green and brown blurs are things, objects. _Trees_, my mind provides. This long pole with green specks on top is a tree. Next to it is another mass of green ovals with smaller poles of brown intertwined, but this one is dotted with pink. _Bush_. _Flower. Leaf. Branch. Bud._ The words come flooding through me. The moment I see them, they are named. A new scent assails me, floral, woody and decidedly green. It is coming from the bush. _Bushes have scents, like colors_. Quickly following, _objects have scents._ The world teems with aromas. I can smell everything in my vicinity, every tree, bush, blade of grass, even the air. Nothing escapes me.

Sight. Smell. Touch? Can I touch these objects? I want to. Suddenly, an apricot blur shoots out toward the nearest bush. Startled, my desire to touch is arrested, as is the apricot thing. What is this strange object that also seems to respond to my bidding?

I want to look closer; it moves toward my vision at alarming speed. _Stop!_ It responds. It is a strange object: four long, thin branch-like objects extend straight from a solid mass. A fifth stub protrudes from the left of the mass and a larger stem extends from the mass back toward me like the shaft of a club. Odd. _What does the other side look like? _The object flips at my command and the other side is rather similar to the first side, only reversed and covered with a fine web of lines. What is it?

_Hand_. Ah, that word sounds right. This is a hand, but not just any hand. This is _my_ hand. I have a hand.

Scratch that, I have two. A second pale hand appears on the left, a mirror image of the right. Fascinating! Hands. With hands I can touch things. I reach out to touch the bush. The leaves feel papery and thin; the flowers delicate and silken. The branches are tough, hard, and alive; if I think hard enough I think I can feel the nourishing sap oozing from cell to cell.

These bushes and trees cannot be everything there is to see and touch. What else is there? I realize that I can only see some things. Perhaps there is something I cannot see; this vista cannot be the entire world, can it? There must be things I cannot see, but where are they? _Behind_. I am suddenly caught up with the idea of 'behind.' Whatever I can see is 'in front' of me, that is, in view of the part of me that sees. Whatever is not is 'behind' in a nebulous, strange place that I cannot see. Does it exist if I cannot see it? Does something have to be seen to exist? Maybe. The only way to know is to test it.

I want to see what is behind me, and instantly the trees and bushes and the blue arc—_sky_—are a blur. They spin to the side and out of my sight until I am looking at things I have not seen before. I feel a bit sick; the blur was unexpected and disconcerting. Have I made the world into a blur? Are the trees and bushes now a smear of green, pink and brown? I have to see.

The world spins again and I am looking at the same tree and bush that I first saw, intact. They did not melt; I did not dissolve them. They still exist—upright, proud and vital. Interesting.

Back to the Behind. The world revolves a third time and I realize that this is not because the world is spinning, but because _I_ am moving. The world stands still while I move within it. Excitement bubbles. The idea of Movement is thrilling—how does it work? Do I move with my hands? Unlikely, as they are nowhere near the ground. Then, what?

I look down at my hands again. I like my hands, but I am not only hands. I know this because I can see my hands, which means I must have something that can see that is not my hands. _Eyes._ I have eyes. What else do I have? The stumps coming out of my hands: _arms._ Do I move with my arms? Again unlikely, but I shelve it as an option. _Think_. If I am moving, something must impel me to move, something connected to the _ground_—the hard, firm, strong thing holding me (and the trees and bushes) up. This leads to a new thought: the trees are on top of the Ground, therefore I must be on top of it, too. Perhaps if I look at the ground I can see how I am connected to it.

As before, my thought commands my sight and the world whirls again, but this time, it whirls upward as my vision moves downward. I see mostly green—_grass_—with some brown (_dirt_) and grey (_rocks_) spots interrupting. However, there are two large pale splotches of color invading the green vista below me—splotches with stubs that look oddly familiar, though different. _Feet. Toes._ These are like hands but not hands. They are longer and the stubs smaller. I wiggle them and the sensation of grass tickling my feet sends shivers running up to my head and back down to my toes. I like it, so I wiggle them again, closing my eyes to indulge the sensation, experiencing it more acutely with the lack of visual perception.

I decide I like sensations. I like textures and the way they make me feel. I should indulge this more often.

Content with having experienced this new touch fully, I move on to examining my feet more. They are connected to longer shafts, like arms, but these are called _legs_. My gaze sweeps up the legs, but also down, because I am getting closer to locus of my vision. The legs are connected to _hips_ and between them … I have to chuckle a bit when I realize that I am male. I feel a strange sense of pride and power with this realization, although I do not know why. I only know that I am a man and that I like this. Once I think about this, it strikes me as odd that I could have interacted with the world and _not_ known that I am male. It is as much a part of who I am as my sight, yet how could I have been so blind to it before now? Will I see the world differently now that I know this? _Could_ I see it differently if I tried? Does my maleness affect what I see and how I see it? Am I conditioned to see and be a certain why simply because of the organs hanging between my thighs? _Male_ seems so intrinsic to my being, yet I did not think _as _a Male when I first saw the bush. Or did I? Did I think as a male qua male before I even knew that I was?

The universe—like the trees and grass—is silent on this score, so I shrug and move on. Above my hips is my _chest_, which has two _nipples_ and a small divot on the lower half, a _belly button_. Why? I cannot imagine what it is for, but I have one. My nipples are about as far as I can get before I am unable to see anymore. Frustrated at my lack of vision, I push even harder to try to see more but nothing avails me. At a loss, my hands instinctively move to discover what the impediment might be. They touch something supple and thick rising from my chest, a _neck_. Ah, now I understand. I cannot see more because my neck can only move so far before it stops. My _head_ cannot go anywhere I want it to.

Perhaps my hands can tell me what my eyes cannot. They explore upward, encountering on my _face_, a _chin, lips, eyes, nose, brows, ears_ and a soft, silky substance extruding from my head. _Hair. _My thin fingers run the length of the strands and it takes a few seconds. I have long hair. Is it the same color as my skin? I pull it forward in front of my eyes. It is yellow—_blonde_—a pale, silvery blonde. I like it immediately.

I think about my face and am unsatisfied with the feel of it. I want to know what it _looks_ like. What do I look like from the outside? If I were someone else, what would I see? Am I pleasing to look at or horrifying? Am I wide, like the bushes or thin, like the trunk of a tree? Do my eyes have color to them? If so, what? Are they red? Purple? Yellow? Green? Black? Or are they clear? Can you see _into_ an eye the same way I can see _out_ of it?

This world is fascinating. I feel its life throbbing up through my toes and into my chest. The rhythm of the world is both within and without me; it flows around me and through me and swirls in my veins as if it were a part of me. The pulsing Power that I felt earlier beats out a regular cadence in tune to the world. This rhythm, the thumping dance of the Power that exists in all things, it is both mine and not mine. Rather, I belong to it; it created me and gave me life. The Power is my lifeblood and my heartbeat.

_Heartbeat_. _Heart._ I have a heart. I also have a _brain_. I think; I see; I smell; I taste; I touch. I can interact with this world that is both I and not I. But a heart … it is not simply the origin of the tempo I feel in every fiber of my being. A heart is for other things … I have a heart, but can I _feel_? And if I can, _should_ I? Do I indulge feeling as I indulge every other sensation? If so, what will I become? If not, what am I?

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**I hope you enjoyed this journey into Jareth's beginning! I've been mulling over it a while, so I hope it was enjoyable. Leave a review, please, and tell me what you think! The next chapter will be back on track with Jareth's perspective on the events unfolding as Sarah travels the Labyrinth. **

**NiennatheWise**


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm BAAAAAACK! Woohoo! I've finally managed to complete graduate school and I plan on finally finishing the story that I should have finished months, nay, _years_ ago. So sorry for those of you who have waited so patiently. I'm SO GLAD to be back writing again and I hope you enjoy the editing I've done on this chapter. I'll have a new chapter up soon! **

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I left my reminiscences with a decidedly foul taste in my mouth. Returning to the beginning of myself had afforded me no insights, but rather had stirred up unsettling questions about Feelings. I despise feelings, and have spent centuries attempting to rid myself of the offensive capacity to experience them. Feelings are a frailty of Man, unworthy of the King of Magic. I could sense them lurking in the corridors, hiding shame facedly but rasping closer with every beat of my inhuman heart. I hate Feelings; love most of all.

_Love_—a squelching word, love. It reeks of goblin excrement, moldering forlornly. A useless, foul, god-forsaken word to be flicked off one's shoe and forgotten in the dust. It oozes, and I abhor ooze.

Had I ever been capable of it, that capacity has long since flittered away on the breeze and with the foul mood I'm in, none but the most dimwitted of imbeciles would think me capable of it now.

My spy has failed me; that worthless son of a troll, Higwhat refuses to do his duty to his liege-lord and lead that dratted girl back to the beginning. He's getting soft in his old age—soft and squelching—oozing. A flick of my wrist brings up a warped, orb-like image of him and my lip curls instinctively. The stench of his betrayal wafts upward through the crystal, a scent dulled only by the musky odor of fear. I see him bumbling through the rocks, muttering and glancing over his shoulder furtively but the girl is missing. _Aha! He is alone and helpless; his loyalties war within him and his fealty is ripe for the plucking. It matters not whether she abandoned him or he, her. She has gone her own way—to her doom. _The snarl transmutes flawlessly into a wicked grin; he shall be mine once more.

By now, I had already decided how to ensnare her; all that remained was to crystallize (quite literally) the plan I devised. It all started with the music box—the billowy, ethereal figure in the golden cage that spun so prettily on her desk. So obviously placed with tenderness and prominence, she had not escaped my noticed while I waited outside in the blinding rain. I admit I allowed my goblins a bit more time to frighten the child when we first arrived, the better to peruse her rooms to discover what sort of adversary I was acquiring in this slip of a girl.

Humans have a strange way of reflecting themselves in their lived space; they shape their environment to themselves as if, by molding the world into a mirror, their reflection will prevent their being forgotten. _I_ have little need for such delusions of power; I have seen the world transformed and transform in return. Man may build a tower to the heavens, only to have it baked to dust by the sun and blown away in the wind. The possession of immortality nullifies any need to strive for it. Still, it is a fascinating study; immortality bores after a time.

Thus, I had found myself once again in the home of a young human girl, wading through her jumbled dreams. The strange human behavior I sneer at proves useful time and again, so I pick through her mind in the form of stuffed animals, newspaper clippings, and assorted knick-knacks. So much junk accumulated in the quest for happiness, yet I can see a pattern forming in the seemingly haphazard array of items. Books of fairy tales, a photo of a young couple (the woman is clearly her mother, they share the same eyes, and the handsome man with her is most definitely _not_ her father, he is far too young), a tube of bright red lipstick hastily tucked away in a half-open drawer, a cheap crown and boa, the frailest ghost of a fancy dress peeping shyly from her closet (blue taffeta with a white mesh crinoline very cheaply embroidered with silver flowers).

In one corner of her bed, the sheets have been hastily tucked in—a diary no doubt. I wouldn't have to look far in it to find what I already knew, but it might be worth perusing. Perhaps I might find the name of a young man she lusted after. I slid two fingers and a thumb under the mattress. Even through my gloves, I could discern the slick, fibrous texture of a book. It was decidedly _not_ what I had expected. Between my slender fingers, I held a volume most disgusting. A mostly naked man (clad only in a tartan) with grotesquely large muscles and long, red hair was clasping a scantily clad woman in the throes of passion. One meaty fist in her hair and the other twined round her unrealistically tiny waist, the man was ravishing her with his mere presence. She was on the verge of ecstasy, her bosom testing the strength of her corset strings, which were holding admirably, for the moment.

One was so drawn to the picture that the title seemed secondary: _To Tame A Rogue_. I didn't need to flip through the contents. Everything I needed to know was contained in the image and title seared onto my eyes. _Is this what human girls find attractive?_ If so, times had truly changed.

From all these appear the image of a girl on the cusp of womanhood, straining for it like the corset bands of the ecstatic flame-haired woman. One breath and she could burst into it.

When I first laid eyes on her, I had offered her dreams. Of course, I am the king of dreams, the weaver of starlit tales and forbidden fantasies. Her eyes betrayed what her budding womanhood grappled to name. Soundless words blossomed in the night air, a flash of lightning struck her green eyes and kindled the fire that raged through her body, resonated in her bones like a song waiting to be played. Over the next hours I tested that song, sharpened it, honed it to a fine point upon which I would impale her soul. Our bodies close, I stoked the fire, fed the coals of her desire. She did not need much; a girl on the cusp of womanhood never does.

But there is a shyness in her gaze that unsettles me. For all her brash comeliness, she is unsure. A doe straining at the edge of a glade, she seeks the sunlight but fears the hunter hiding in the dense foliage just beyond. I must tread carefully with the woman-child Sarah.

Nevertheless, I have no fear that I shall succeed. Many a slip of a girl has rushed headlong into my waiting arms only to feel them close like a vise around their once-bright dreams. I shall spin her a shimmering web of gossamer lies, and she shall wrap herself in its finery to her doom.

My lips curve into a predatory smile that the goblins fear; I hear them, distantly, ducking behind stones and tattered curtains, their revels forgotten. The boy on my lap forgets his baubles, aware as only a babe can be of the hidden danger lurking behind the beautiful face I chose so long ago. Yet, even in the face of his fear, he does not cry. I turn to him—his blue eyes wide with fear, his fist stuck into his mouth as if to bottle up the cry welling in his tiny throat. There is something appealing in such innocent dread. I tap his nose lightly with one flick of my black glove and the spell is broken. One twist of my face and he sees a kitten rather than a tiger. With the little fellow thus mollified that his playfellow has not disappeared, I return to my creative endeavors, shaping a trap for this darling child's sister.

Man will never cease to amaze me with its lack of knowledge regarding the mystical arts. Can they not see the fine mesh of magic that weaves their world together? True, it is a small misty net, nothing to the bejeweled gold and silver net with which I have woven my kingdom. The deeper mists have long since retreated from the dominion they once held over the human lands, but they are still present in what they consider "their world." Without the magic, all would cease. What they call science is merely magic by another name. Even this babe would not have been within my grasp were there not yet the tendrils of magic strung tenuously throughout Man's existence. Magic is the lifeblood of the universe, and I am its heart.

I do not need much to hold her, but for some reason I cannot fathom, I wish her cage to be not merely effective, but beautiful. Soft as springtime, warm as summer, I weave together longing with lies. Vengeance for her defiance shall be mine. They say revenge is sweeter than wine and if so, I am concocting a heady elixir indeed. When it is complete, I behold it in my mind's eye with satisfaction. It gleams like ruby fire and diamond strength, winking, tempting, beguiling and definite. When next I meet that grubby little dwarf, I shall hand him her future. And she shall take it willingly from his hands.

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I heard her scream and was waiting for him. The grubby little worm was so intent on his treachery that he ran headlong into my legs—his forehead cracked ominously against my knee and he looked up, shuddering and wide-eyed. I had dressed for the occasion in a coat of dwarven leather. (Contrary to myth, dwarves detest living underground and prefer to work with their hands. The women are skilled in textiles and leather, the men in iron working, though some prefer the finer craft of filigree and jewelry making to the smoky work of a forge. They do have a weakness for jewels, but they prefer to trade them honesty than dig for them in the ground. The myth is probably the result of human prejudice, and a strange predilection to believe that the closer you are to the ground, the more akin you must feel to it.)

At this very moment, the coat was a reminder that the dwarves were my faithful servants and allies. Having been exiled from their lively society for thievery and crudeness, Hoggle could do well to remember that I had given him sanctuary and be properly grateful with his subservience.

I fixed an insincere smile on my face. "Well, well, well, if it isn't _you._ Just _where_ do you think you're going?"

"Uh, um, well," the little toad licked his lips, obviously stalling for time. I could hear the wheels in his small brain grinding, accompanied by a whiff of smoke. "Oh, the little lady gave me the slip, see…"

The dulcet tones of the girl's shrill cries for the hairy beast and the dwarf greased the wheels a bit.

"And, I just hear her now, so I was about to, uh, lead her back to the beginning. Just like you told me." He punctuated the last with a smug smile. Not even a goblin would be fooled by his false sincerity.

"I see. For one moment, I thought you might be running to help her." I swished my riding crop ominously at a branch as I paced away from him. "But no." I turned on him suddenly and he backed up a step. "Not after my warnings. That _would_ be stupid."

"Oh, eh, heh, heh. You bet it would! Me? Help her? After your warnings? Ha ha. Hrmmm."

I knelt so that when he turned to face me our eyes would be level. Intimacy made him nervous. Well, more nervous. "Oh dear," I clucked softly. "Poor Hoghead."

"Hoggle."

"I just noticed that your lovely jewels are missing."

The gears were chugging again, slowly. "Oh, uh, yes, so they are. My lovely jewels. Let me think…I've gotta find them. But _first_, I'm off to take the little lady back to the beginning of the Labyrinth, just like we planned."

"Wait!" He halted, foot in midair like a stork. "I've got a much better plan Huggle." Swish. "Give her this." And flick.

"What is it?" He asked of the peach.

"It's a present of course." The hawk to my right keened a short, soft laugh.

"It aint gonna to hurt the little lady is it?"

I sneered, "Oh, now why the concern?"

"I won't do nuthin to harm 'er."

"Oh come, come come, Hogbrain! I'm surprised at you! Losing your head, over a _girl?_"

"I _aint_ lost my head!"

"You don't think a young girl would ever like a repulsive," I punctuated the word with a jab of my crop, "little," jab, "scab," jab, "like you?" Jab. "_Do_ you?"

"Well," he replied in a small voice. "She said we was—"

"What?" I mocked. "Bosom companions? _Friends?_"

"Ahhh. It don't matter."

That was it. I had won, now to drive home my point. "You'll give her that, Hoggle, or I'll tip you straight into the Bog of Eternal Stench before you can blink!"

"Yeah, right." He mumbled, schlumping and harrumphing away.

"Oh, and Hoggle, if she ever kisses you, I'll turn you into a prince!"

"You will?!" He positively beamed; the dwarf really _had_ lost his head.

"Prince of the land of stench!"

I must admit that was one of my better jokes of the last century.

I laughed at my own cleverness all the way back to the castle and for a few minutes after I arrived. The baby found me amusing as well because he chuckled quite merrily along with me. He was a lively little chap and I told him so.

"I think I'll call him Jareth," I told no one in particular. "He has my eyes." The goblins roared and not even _their_ riotous din could diminish my delight. A goblin with matted hair and a horned helmet struck up a game of kick-the-chicken with a thin, long-nosed goblin that smelled of rotting meat. Baby Jareth giggled with glee and spite, clapping his hands to urge their fun. Human children can be chillingly cruel.

I hummed a few bars of "Dance Magic"—it was a catchy tune—and summoned a crystal to see how the girl was progressing. She'd met up with the Fire Gang and was shuffling her feet uneasily around their campfire, clearly disturbed by their ability to dis- and re-member themselves at will.

For myself, I enjoy their company. They're loud without being rude, energetic but not grating, and amusing in their antics. I have never been able to figure out their origin; nor can the faeries despite their learned wisdom and lore. These strange, sprightly creatures simply appeared one day at my gate, dancing and acrobating their request for asylum. I believe they might be fire elementals, but I cannot be certain.

I barked a laugh and Baby Jareth startled. The creatures were trying to tear her head off; she must have upset them pretty badly. How typical. She had no idea what she was doing.

Hoggle rescued her, the twerp, but the best was yet to come. The girl was so overwhelmed with gratitude that she kissed him. _She kissed the bald-pated little twerp right on his flabby cheek._ I howled with delight! I could not have foreseen an ending more perfect for the treacherous Hogwart and his ladylove!

"I must say Jareth," I murmured into the infant's hair—my hair tickled his neck and he giggled, unbeknownst to him, at his sisters' discomfort. "She'll live with that foul stench forever. They can be king and queen of the bog, I think. Perhaps I'll hold a coronation for them and wish them joy in their smelly kingdom. A wreath of poison oak to add insult to injury? Or hemlock perhaps, if they wish to drown their sorrows in the grave? Ha ha! Oh it is too rich!"

I am a bit disappointed that she never got to taste my revenge, but this is almost as good. Almost.

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**Back in the saddle! Please R&R, and I'll have more soon :) **

**NiennatheWise**


	9. Chapter 9

**First new chapter in what….two years? I can't believe it's been so long. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting but here is the ballroom scene :)**

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Triumph! Although the foul creatures escaped the bog, I have won victory at last. She may not be the queen of stench, but she shall be the queen of her own prison. Strange that such a very human thing like hunger should be the undoing of the silly child who sought to unseat a king. Hoggle could not resist my command to feed the girl her dreams; the fear I held over his murky, dull mind wheedled into his heart, nagged his greedy pride, and squelched his budding friendship. Fear, not love, rules the cowardly of heart.

I watched, breathless, as she raised my poison to her lips. I wanted to taste the juice on her lips, hear the tear of the skin beneath her white teeth, and smell the burst of summer as it entered her nostrils, mingled, of course with a hint of despair. Ah ha! Her face is changing; she knows something is wrong. The betrayal in her eyes sates me. I laugh. The goblins laugh. Not to be outdone, the boy in my lap giggles and we share a moment of unspoken, cruel delight. Children can be such heartless little monsters.

Quick as lightning, I gather the small jewels I created and blow them her way—pearls floating through the trees. Drawn by her own desire, they consume her as her friends watch her drift helplessly by.

I built her a palace of dreams and I entered it. From across the room I see her fumble, bewildered by the sounds and colors swirling like flotsam in a sea of revelry. Faces that are not faces both terrify and allure her. Although I have hidden myself among the crowd, she searches for me, though she does not yet know for whom she is looking.

I swathed her crystalline prison with silk and filled it with mirth. Dancing, dancing, everything dancing. Diamond laughter sparkled in every glass; beaked faces took shelter behind their feathered hands; men sprouted horns and leapt nimbly to the eerie music. Colors blended and faded into each other, a cacophony of color within the raucous revelry. It was a scene designed both to compel and confuse.

I saw her, bewildered, from behind my bedeviled mask. She was breathtaking. Taking her Cinderella music box as inspiration, I had fashioned a fantasy fit for a princess. Pure as the driven snow in virginal white and silver, she managed to make even her uncertainty look graceful. Luna incarnate—stars glimmered in her midnight hair and every breath was a sigh of longing whispered into the night. I felt dizzy, moonstruck. I had meant to deceive her longer but my mask fell as if melted by her light.

My body twitched toward hers but I restrained myself. She must come to me. In the sea of impish masks, my own, human face drew hers instantly. I let her glimpse me but an instant, the better to heighten her desire. Behind a damask curve of hip, I smiled as the music swelled. I had written this song for her. A cunning trap for the celestial maiden; I tried not to think about how easily the words had flowed into the magic. _Vengeance is a cunning muse; that is all. Definitely nothing more_.

_There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes_; a_ kind of pale jewel, open and closed within your eyes; I'll place the sky within your eyes._

Beneath the midnight sky, the moon turned slowly. Longing filled its eyes, spilling over and flooding the room with its silent appeal. I could feel her gaze, ever searching for me as if to sear me with her light.

_There's such a fooled heart, beating so fast in search of new dreams, a love that will last within your heart; I'll place the moon within your heart._

How can I give the moon to the moon? I already had the moon in my grasp, what could I give as a token to such ethereal glory?

_As the pain sweeps through, makes no sense for you; every thrill is gone, wasn't too much fun at all. But I'll be there for you, when the world falls down._

The separation between our bodies was painful. I had seen her hearts piercing longing for love, the painful rejection of family and friends had created an open sore ripe for my skilled hand. But why did that pain echo within me? Perhaps I had bound myself too closely to her imprisonment. Her soul's anguish must have reverberated too strongly that I feel it now. No matter, I can sweep it away with the lavender silk that now impedes my passage.

_I'll paint you mornings of gold; I'll spin you Valentine evenings; though we're strangers till now, we're choosing the path between the stars. I'll lay my love between the stars. _

She has found me. Or rather, I have let her find me. Green eyes wide, she stands quivering—a tuning fork struck and resonating in tune with my melody. She smells of moonlight waters and jasmine, a heady scent. For this moment, there is no one else but us—the Labyrinth King and his Moonlit Lover. She opens to me, her heart bleeding out of her eyes across the space between us that seems to grow vaster every second. I want to pull her closer, demolish the gap and I can feel she does as well. My hand on her waist radiates heat and I wonder that she is not burned. I open my lips to sing the final note of her damnation:

_As the pain sweeps through, makes no sense for you; every thrill is gone, wasn't too much fun at all. But I'll be there for you, when the world falls down._

With whispering lies, I bind her to me. Every beat of her heart tied her close to me, each touch, each glance, each breath echoing like thunder in her veins bound her inextricably to me and no other.

_Makes no sense at all. Makes no sense to fall. Falling. As the world falls down. Falling. Falling in love._

She is mine. I hold her heart in my hands and I thrill as victory courses through my veins; I am drunk with power. I have won both the child and his would-be protector. Dreams had been her downfall.

Something is wrong. I glance down at my hand and find it empty. I am empty, my hand, my arms, my eyes. She's gone. A flutter of silver trapped between crimson and olive; the click of a hurried heel on marble floor more accustomed to the light step of dancing or the heavy tread of liquor. She's leaving me behind. She's running away. Fear had glimmered in her jade-green eyes, but I thought it but a passing fancy, nerves induced by her own burgeoning desire. I did not expect her defection.

The clock chimed. Her fate echoed and was dampened by swaths of muslin and taffeta. Ladies laughed behind crooked beaks and men shook their hobgoblin faces in lust-induced torpor. _You will not escape_, their shallow eyes mocked. _Pretty thing, stay with your pretty toys. _She started, cornered and frightened by the leering masks dancing in her eyes. She seized an ivory chair and hurled it at their bulbous, reflected jest.

It shattered. All her dreams fell like rain through the dark night of her soul. She had grown powerful; I had not realized she could break through her deepest desires to care for something outside of herself. Though unexpected, her defiance would not safe her. The present I had given the dwarf to feed her still clung, cloyingly sweet, to what was left of her memory. It oozed into her, bogging her down more powerfully than the bog of stench ever could. That swamp terrified only the weak-hearted and proud. The quagmire I had set her to was much more subtle, insidious, and debilitating. She would waste away in the phantom magic, piling up her broken dreams upon her back like so much refuse until it crushed her. I had sent many a star-eyed damsel to that particular fate and they still rambled the trash-heaps of their memories, searching, digging, heaping up fantasies in the quest for what they'd lost and helping others to do the same. They were consumed by their lost selves, clinging to the only shreds they could summon. Her fate and theirs would be one.

And yet, my mind told me that something was wrong. I watched her fall through wisps of cloud and fantasy until something inside me broke. Too late I realized that I had bound her too tightly, too closely. Careless, I had bound her to that which was not real, that which could not, _should_ not exist. So closely did I tie her within me that when the walls of her glass prison shattered, so did my heart.

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**Thanks for reading, please R&R! You, my loyal fans, are awesome to have stuck with me so long. Thank you for your patience!**

**NiennatheWise**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's another chapter for your enjoyment! **

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Frustration billowed around me as I swept into the throne room. Goblins scattered in its wake; its dark folds whispered poisonously against the stone floor, and when my feet ceased their furious pace back and forth across the dais, it pooled ominously. _Somehow, this chit of a girl has managed to overcome every single one of my obstacles. One by one they've crumbled: she __**should**__have wandered lost in the Endless Corridor; she __**should**__ have stayed trapped in the Oubliette—forgotten and alone until I could reclaim her after her time had run out; she __**should**__ have been cut to bits by the Cleaners or ripped apart by the Fire Daemons; she __**should**__ have pitched head first into the bog and lived out her days with that dratted Higshat as the Fetid Queen; she __**should**__have stayed trapped by her dreams…_ The last thought sparked, kindled a flame, and raged unchecked. My mind flared red, orange, yellow and blazing white before it turned black and all thinking ceased.

I heard a young child whimpering and felt a cautious finger. I opened my eyes—sunk deep in ash—to see blue ones rimmed with tears. The wee Jareth had one fist stuck in his mouth, and his ragged breathing made a wet sucking sound around his pudgy fingers. I stirred myself from the ashes; a gloved hand reached instinctively to wipe away his tears. His eyes rounded; his fist dropped and the squelching breathing stopped. His lower lip quivered dangerously.

"Come, come, Jareth," I clucked softly. "I'm not dead, just…well…disintegrated for a while. No need to cry." I placed one hand on the ground and pushed myself onto my knees and then to my feet. Clouds of ash swirled and choked in inky tendrils. The boy coughed twice and wailed; my chest squeezed painfully. _It must be the smoke in my lungs._ However, some instinct in me reached out through my limbs to grasp the boy to my chest, protecting his frail lungs with my bare skin as I moved away from my all-to-recent self-immolation. His wail was building to a full-fledged bawl, and I could feel him gasping for air, choked both by his own tears and my ashen remains.

"Hush, little one, I'm here." I swayed my hips rhythmically and rubbed his back—it seemed the right thing to do—and he calmed. His small body still shuddered with need, and I could feel his tears on my skin. My chest squeezed painfully underneath the wetness; I hugged him tighter, holding his frail little body close to ease the pain. "I'm sorry I scared you. I was angry and I…well, I blew up. Literally." I smirked to myself at that. _Too bad infants don't understand humor._ "I couldn't help it, but I'm so sorry. Don't be frightened, Jareth, I'm here."

With more shushing and patting, he quieted and soon fell asleep. Every minute or so, his body would hiccough—the aftermath of his tearful despair—and my chest would twinge. I knew I needed to find clothing and check on the girl's progress, but I didn't want to put him down for fear that he would awake and, finding me absent, believe me gone for good.

Eventually, I magicked clothing around myself; it oozed out of my pores in a graceful whisper that barely stirred the baby. His angel lips puckered softly around his thumb; I traced a lazy outline of a blonde curl where it dropped against his forehead and caught myself wondering if I was capable of fathering children. _Theoretically, it must be possible; I am equipped like every male. I highly doubt that my body would have useless parts—magic has no sense of humor. _That led to other questions: what kind of female could bear my children? Could a faerie? A fey child? A human?

What kind of woman would I _want_ to bear my offspring? _She could not be a coward or stupid. _I would not allow any child of mine to be less than extraordinary, regardless of being born of human (or faerie) parentage. _No doubt he would take after me_—a powerful mage, a wild untamable force of nature with no will but his own. But what if he were born human—frail, mortal, and filled with feelings? _Then I would turn him into a goblin and produce another_. For some inexplicable reason, my stomach plummeted at that thought. I looked down again at the human child in my arms—his eyes and face so like mine yet not mine—would I have the heart to turn him into a goblin? Could I transfigure my namesake into something unrecognizable? Watch his flesh bubble and thicken, his eyes darken to nothing but black, his hair turn black and fall out, his nails sharpen to claws, and his voice turn shrewish with mischief?

No.

How much less my own flesh? Thought of my thought, bone of my bone, spirit of my spirit? No. _Much better to not risk it and never produce a child. What need have I of heirs anyway? I'm immortal and omnipotent. Or nearly so. I need no other._

And yet…

I breathed deeply of his flesh, drank in every curve and roll of his body; I listened to his hair and smelled his tightly closed eyes. He was everything perfect and beautiful about the strange creature called Man. Now, more than anything else in eternity, I wanted him. Sarah must fail and he would be mine forever. She must not win; my Labyrinth must not fail. If it did—if _she_ did…

_So help me I will destroy you, Sarah Williams. _

An eerie echo of my own words drifted through the hallways. If only she could hear it, I would not have to resort to what I had in mind: "Turn back, Sarah! Forget about the baby….the baby…the baby…."

Yes, the baby._ He _was would drown in her own thwarted ambition, and he would rule by my side forever.

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**I received an anonymous review from a user and since I am unable to directly respond to him/her before I post the next chapter I want to clarify something: in this story, Jareth was created by magic to protect it and care for it (see chapter 1); he is the "incarnation" of magic, gives it form and the ability to interact with beings as a being itself. The taking of unwanted children from the human world is a secondary development (one that Jareth thoroughly enjoys) due to his interactions with humanity in its early days. He was "born" as an avatar of magic, but it should be clear that he is much more. Part of this story is an exploration of what it would mean for a creature created to lack empathy and human emotions (because he was "pure magical energy) to slowly explore them because he is unknowingly and even against his own desires, influenced by the very creatures he believes himself to be superior to. Just wait for it, the self-discovery will come—as it usually does in life—with time and crisis. Also, there is a reason I haven't mentioned the book Sarah reads at the beginning of the film, keep reading and you'll find out why I haven't talked about it yet!**


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